“It’s true, Mr. Parks,” asseverated Andy. “They are in a plot to burn the Racing Star and have you lose the prize.”
“Do you hear what this boy says?” thundered the aeronaut, moving down on Tyrrell with threatening mien.
“It’s—it’s not true,” declared Tyrrell, but turning pale, shrinking back, and looking about him for a chance to run.
“If you don’t believe me,” cried Andy, “search him.”
Scipio held Tyrrell’s arm in a viselike clasp. Parks ran his hand over his clothing. He drew from his pocket a parcel done up in a handkerchief. Mr. Morse took it, opened it, and revealed a bottle filled with some substance like kerosene, a small box of matches and some lint. Quick as a flash the hand of the aeronaut shot out for the throat of Tyrrell.
“You treacherous scoundrel!” he shouted.
Boom!
“The third gun! They’re off, Mr. Parks,” cried Andy. “Oh, don’t let the Racing Star miss it.”
“Send me. Men, get ready. Mr. Parks, I’ll win this race!”